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“You’re great, Lucy! I had no idea you were so great!” John exclaimed. The man was my husband. Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. With a faint view of overtaking them the pursuer urged his steed to a quicker pace. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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